


Liquor and Pool

by mistyzeo



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-07
Updated: 2011-04-07
Packaged: 2017-10-20 12:59:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/213026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mistyzeo/pseuds/mistyzeo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An afternoon spent waiting for Dad at a bar in Magnolia, AR: a vignette for the photo.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Liquor and Pool

  


It's just after two on a Tuesday afternoon when they pull into Magnolia, Arkansas; population 10,451. There's a bar with a big ol' arrow, like Dean of all people would miss it, and an American flag out front, drifting aimlessly in the sluggish breeze. Sam rolls his eyes heavenward at the predictability of it all and slouches in his seat, melted by the midsummer sun. The tires crunch on the gravel parking lot, and Dean throws the car into park and climbs out, long limbs expanding and stretching. Sam looks away from the flash of skin between hem and belt and opens his own door.

"We're not stopping here," he says, almost a question, mostly a demand. Sweat is running down the length of his spine, gluing his shirt to the small of his back, and he feels prickly all over.

"Sure we are," Dean says, grinning. When Sam lifts an eyebrow-- a move he practiced in secret in front of the mirror until he could match Dean-- he deflates a little and shrugs his shoulders. He's wearing Dad's jacket, even though it's way too hot for it, and it makes Sam scowl. "Come on, dude. I'll buy you a half and half."

"I don't want a half and half, jackass," Sam grouses, resting his palms on the top of the car and jerking them away an instant later. He huffs and shakes them while Dean smirks.

"Well this is where we're meeting Dad, so you can quit bitching or you can stay in the car."

"We're meeting Dad at a bar?"

"No," Dean says, giving his door a good push so it slams closed. "We're waiting for him to call and tell us where we're staying tonight. Gotta kill some time."

"Whatever," Sam says, rolling his eyes. It could be worse. He's tall for seventeen, could pass for twenty-one even without the fake in his wallet, and maybe Dean will buy him a beer instead of iced tea and lemonade. Maybe it'll be air conditioned inside. Maybe Dad will call on time like he's promised.

The dark bar leaves him blind through the door, and Dean's got a hand on his shoulder in an instant. Sam can feel the cold rush of air, can hear the buzz of talk and the familiar thrum of classic rock from a jukebox that Dean will probably be hogging in a minute or two, and all he can see is the glare from the lighted mirror behind the bar. Then he can see Dean's face, smiling easy at him, and he manages a smile back.

"Afternoon, boys," the bartender says, a big, dark, suspicious-sounding shape looming between taps. They're strangers here, and they're too young to be in a bar at two p.m., that's for damn sure. Dean turns and gives the guy a little wave.

"Afternoon!" he says, dripping charm. "You mind if we use your pool table for a bit? We're waiting for our Dad, and this joker," jabbing his thumb at Sam, "needs to learn a thing or two about playing a man's game."

The bartender's posture relaxes, and he holds out a hand. "Sure thing, boys," he says. "Lemme know if you need anything."

"Git up," Dean says, giving Sam a poke in the ribs that has him jerking away and towards the empty pool table. Dean ambles up the bar, pulling out his wallet, and Sam hears him ordering a Coors and a goddamn half and half. The bartender takes a long, close look at his ID, and Sam's got the rack set up by the time Dean comes over with the two drinks.

"Fuck you," Sam says, stealing the beer and sipping it, and Dean puts the half and half down to cuff him on the back of the head.

"Ingrate," he accuses and takes the beer back, careful not to spill. Sam's body twitches with a shudder of alcohol, and Dean winks at him over the edge of the glass. "Drink the drink I bought you, pal."

Sam takes the liberty of breaking the rack instead, and Dean sets his beer down beside Sam's joke of a beverage to collect and chalk his own pool cue. Sam doesn't really need to be taught-- he's been hustling since he turned fifteen and Dad agreed to let Dean show him a few things-- but he doesn't mind Dean giving him pointers, adjusting the butt of his cue as he leans down to take a shot, 'hmm'ing when he gives Dean back a little challenge. Dean's voice is soft and serious, his attention focused on the here and now, focused on Sam.

Sometimes Dean goes quiet, and then the only sound is the music playing low and the sharp click of the balls coming together and bouncing apart. They share both drinks, and Sam starts to pull ahead.

Dean's phone rings abruptly, and Sam scratches in surprise, cue ball falling smoothly into the table's far pocket. Dean snorts and answers the phone, turning away out of habit and lowering his voice. Sam can hear him anyway-- Sam can always hear.

"Hey, Dad," Dean says, giving Sam a two-fingered wave like Sam's going to stop watching him. Dean rolls his eyes and turns his attention back to the tinny buzz of Dad's voice. "Yeah, we're here. Hanging out." He pauses. "Yeah, okay." He purses his lips and narrows his eyes, and Sam recognizes his annoyed face. "No, Sam's fine. I said he's fine, Dad. We'll be okay for the night." Sam's heart sinks, and he can feel his head and shoulders drop a fraction in disappointment. He's not sure why he still lets himself be disappointed. Dean says, "Yes, sir, I'll do that. Okay. Take care, Dad. Bye."

"Well?" Sam demands, all the irritation that seeped out of him over the game of pool simmering again under his skin.

"Dad says 'hi.'"

Sam narrows his eyes.

"He's stuck in Montgomery, probably won't be in until tomorrow."

"'Kay," Sam says, picking up his cue again.

"Sammy," Dean says, placating.

"Whatever, Dean," Sam sighs, shaking his head. He'd rather have Dean's attention back on the game than on his frustration with their Dad. He likes the way Dean gets when they play; the intent in his eyes is addicting, and Sam loves having it for himself.

"We can stay at the place across the street," Dean offers.

"Sounds good," Sam agrees. Dean blows out a breath behind him, and Sam turns around. "Dude, it's fine. It happens. Can we just finish the game?"

Dean fiddles with his phone, fiddles with his cue, and then takes off the heavy leather jacket. "Yeah," he says. "Now don't think you're getting off easy, bitch."

"Wouldn't dream of it, jerk," Sam says, starting to smile again.

+++


End file.
